


Sultry

by tastewithouttalent



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, Hot Weather, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Simultaneous Orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "There’s no hurry, either to rouse himself further or to chase satisfaction; that’s the first rule to Furawau, the one so many foreign visitors don’t seem to understand. Patience is the key: to comfort, to power, to satisfaction." The youngest and eldest brothers of the Lilium family take some time to indulge themselves, and each other.





	Sultry

It’s a hot day.

This isn’t a surprise. Furawau is blessed with prosperity, and beauty, and power; and the long, sultry heat of the summers that spill over the edges of their natural span, creeping early into the springtime and drawing long into what would be the midst of autumn for other districts. It can feel oppressive, for those not born to it, for those who haven’t learned, yet, how to maneuver through the heat of the day, how to navigate the process of obtaining and maintaining comfort the same way one might navigate a complicated political negotiation or the specifics of a peace treaty. Intimidating, perhaps, or overwhelming to the uninitiated; perhaps there are even those who find the payoff insufficient for the price paid, who retreat to their cool northern homes and their pedantic, useless lives in exchange for what they deem comfort.

He doesn’t understand the sentiment, himself; but then, as the youngest brother of the Lilium family, he’s as suited for the climate as the profusion of flowers around him are for the weight of the heat bearing down on them.

It’s cooler in the shade. The air is still thick with humidity, still weights against the skin like the lingering touch of a lover and fills the lungs like it’s trying to drown the bodies that have the temerity to require oxygen instead of liquid; but the brilliance of the sun makes the shadows that much darker, until it’s closer to the dimness of evening underneath their pavilion rather than the midday bright it is in truth. It makes him drowsy, pulls at his eyelids like it’s trying to urge them down, to persuade him into the drifting doze that always seems like the best way to spend these hottest hours of the afternoon, when any kind of productivity is out of the question. He thinks about it, lets his mind wander over the beginnings of dreamscapes and tip at the edge of surrender to unconsciousness; and his subconscious steps smoothly in, and takes control of the steering of his thoughts. Idle images gain focus and clarity, the heat of the air spreads out to fill the blood in his veins; and against the loose weight of his clothes, under the fall of the silken robe he’s wearing, he can feel his cock start to stir itself to arousal.

He doesn’t move for some time. There’s no hurry, either to rouse himself further or to chase satisfaction; that’s the first rule to Furawau, the one so many foreign visitors don’t seem to understand. Patience is the key: to comfort, to power, to satisfaction. Anything hastily won is as likely to crumble to uselessness as to provide the gratification it was intended to, and with the full heat of the summer pressing itself into the air he’s loath to move with any kind of speed, even for this. So he lies still, sprawling across the chair tipped down to a low, lounging angle, and he lets his thoughts wander instead of his hands, lets his mind skim over fantasy and memory alike as his blood pumps hotter through his veins, as his heart beats faster and rushes his breathing to speed. He’s thinking of late nights in humid bedchambers, of the smell of flowers and the sweet of perfume, of lips curving onto heavy-slow smiles before ducking in to press to skin; and at his hips his cock is swollen full, defying gravity to press up against the thin fabric of his clothes to make his arousal abundantly obvious for anyone who cares to look.

He’s not concerned. The pavilion is aside from the main street of the district, set into some imitation of privacy even if the rolled-up sides remove any actual fact of it; and more importantly any native resident will know better than to interrupt any member of the Lilium family without express invitation. There might as well be a wall around the heavy shaded edges of the pavilion for how much an outsider will interfere; and he’s not about to complain about any comment from the other person sharing the weight of the shade with him.

“You don’t need to pretend to sleep.”

He tips his head to the side and opens his eyes, slow, like lifting a curtain from his vision so he can see the speaker: his eldest brother, sitting at the end of the table where he has an array of documents laid out before him for his review. He’s been reading over them for the last hour, his gaze focused on the pages in front of him and the rustle of the sheets over themselves like the sound of leaves shuddering in the occasional breeze to stir up the heat in the air; but he’s looking up now, his gaze lifted from the work before him to fix on his audience instead, to cling to the lines of the other’s body as his mouth tugs at the tension of a smile.

His smile is slower than his brother’s, languid and heavy to match the heat of the air and the low burn smouldering itself to want in his veins. “I’m not,” he allows, and turns sideways on the support of the lounge beneath him so he can brace his elbow against it and prop the weight of his head up against his hand instead. “I was thinking about it, though. Are you done with your work?”

“Done enough.” His brother tips back from the table he’s been using as a desk, letting his shoulders fall against the reclining back of his chair so the furniture can take his weight rather than himself. “I can certainly afford a midday break.”

The suggestion is clear by the implication of the words; coupled with the dark of the gaze that goes along with them and the liquid heat of that voice, the imitation might as well be spoken aloud. His smile slips wide at his lips, heating his blood until he thinks he could more than match the weight of the sunlight as he pushes himself up from his lounging comfort and gets to his feet to shuffle over the distance to his brother’s chair. His brother pushes back from the edge by bracing a foot against the heavy support of the table leg and sliding backwards until he has space enough to hold his hands out in offering, and the other steps forward without hesitating to straddle his brother’s lap, to fit his knees alongside the other’s hips and reach out to slip his fingers up against the stiff collar of the other’s jacket. The fabric is crisp under his touch, holding to its form as if it remains wholly untouched by the heat of the air; but underneath it there’s hot skin, radiant with the humid slick of sweat as surely as his own is.

“What were you thinking about?” his brother asks, letting his hands fall to settle against the other’s waist, to pin silk to heat-damp skin. It would be unpleasant in other circumstances, with other people; as it is it just makes his cock stir the harder, twitching against the draping weight of his clothes with enough force that he’s sure the movement would be visible, if either of them were looking for it. As it is, though, his gaze is on his brother’s mouth, his lashes dipping into lazy heat as his arms wind around the other’s shoulders, and his brother’s gaze is cast up to his face, the tension of that smile still sticking to the corner of his lips as his hands slip down to collect handfuls of silken fabric and draw the weight up and off the other’s thighs.

“You, of course.” It’s an easy answer, one they both know for truth well before he gives it voice or leans in to punctuate with the press of his lips against his brother’s. The contact earns him a low note from the other’s throat, and the dip of lashes down over endlessly dark eyes; he lingers longer than he intended to, savouring the curve of his mouth against his brother’s and the way the humid heat of the air shifts from oppressive to promising in the span of a few short heartbeats of suggestion. The shadows around them seem to gain form and weight, like curtains falling to drape them in the outline of privacy; even knowing that they’re in full sight of the main street it’s hard to feel anything other than completely isolated, blocked off from the blistering heat by the thick dark around them, the air humid with rising arousal instead of the unpleasant burden of summer sunlight. He’s breathless when he pulls away, his lungs working hard over the deep breaths of heated air he manages; they cast his voice into smoke, turn familiar syllables low and dark with wanting. “It’s always only you, aniki.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” His brother’s hands are sliding up higher, catching against the edge of his drawn-up clothing to slide up and beneath the thin fabric; his hands are warmer still against bare skin, but the other voices no more complaint than he feels. The contact glows heat into him, fills his veins with the languid promise of satisfaction almost as good as the actuality of it for how certain it is; he rocks his hips forward as his brother’s hand slides up his spine, his weight tilting in to grind close against the front of the other’s pants as the touch at his skin slides in and under the tangle of his clothes to press down at the dip of his ass. “It’d be a shame to think I was your backup choice.”

“Mm,” he hums, his laugh melted down to sticky-sweet in his throat by the heat radiating out into him from the hand at his skin, from the fingers dipping down to trace against his entrance. “Never.” He slides both hands up into slicked-back hair, pressing his fingers close to weight against the other’s scalp. “You’re the only one who can satisfy me, aniki.”

“How convenient that I happen to be available,” his brother purrs, and lifts his free hand out from under the other’s clothes so he can hold his hand palm up. His fingers are still working against the other’s body, dragging and pressing against sensitive skin like he’s toying with the idea of thrusting in just as they are, with nothing but the slick heat of their sweat to ease the motion. “Reach for that oil.”

He does. It’s an easy stretch for the bottle thus indicated; he doesn’t wait for an order before he tips the bottle sideways to spill slippery liquid across his brother’s outstretched hand. The oil drips over the other’s fingers, trickling over his palm to spatter against the smooth white of the paving stones beneath them, but neither of them hesitate over the wet; they’re occupied with other things, setting the bottle back on the table and reaching to hitch up the fall of silken robes respectively. He sets the bottle in its place, returns his hold to the back of the other’s neck; and his brother’s hand slides down against him as quick as that, trailing oil in its wake as his fingers press down to join the weight of his other hand. For a moment there are two sets of fingers against him, the tense heat of the one hand and the slick wet of the other; and then his brother draws back and up, ducking his head to watch as he unfastens the side of the other’s clothes with more attention than he’s giving to the slick slide of his fingers as they press in and up to breach the tension of the other’s body. He tenses against the pressure, his thighs flexing tight against his brother’s hips; but when his head goes back it’s on a groan, a low spill of sound as hot and heavy as the perfume suffusing the air around them.

“Like that,” his brother says, loosening the fastenings of silken robes so he can draw them aside and ease the slick upward drive of his touch into the tension of the other’s body. His other hand he brings around, up under the hitched-up weight of those half-undone clothes so his fingers can seek out the flushed heat of the other’s cock, so he can tighten his hold into a steady grip against the length of it. “Let me hear you.”

He obeys. It’s an easy command to surrender to; the touch inside him is as certain as those fingers were against the stack of documents a moment before, as steady in seeking out the rising pulse of pleasure in him as they were over the midday lunch they shared an hour ago. With the hand working up over his cock in tandem he thinks it would be harder to stay silent than otherwise, harder to press his lips to quiet than to tip his head back and let his breathing ripple into groaning notes of heat as each thrust, each stroke pulls him into greater heat, into greater desire. It doesn’t matter that they’re in view of the street, doesn’t matter that any number of passersby can hear the drag of his voice cracking open over evident pleasure; with the heat in the air and the want in his veins, the only thing he can find it in him to care about at all is the rising tide of arousal in him, the heat of anticipation that is radiating up his spine and tensing through his body with every shift of his thighs, with every involuntary clench of his body around the stroke of pressure into him.

“Good,” his brother says, his voice as syrup-heavy as the air. “Like that.” He lets his grip on the other’s cock go, easing the relief of pressure against the heat-swollen length, but it’s only to reach between the other’s thighs so he can work open the fastenings of his own pale slacks. He’s hard against the fabric -- the other can feel the pressure against the inside of his thigh, can feel the promise of it weighting against him with every forward motion he takes -- but it’s better, as it’s always better, as the fabric falls open and promise is replaced with actuality, with the open heat of a dark-flushed cock pressing up under his own.

The hand returns to his hip, fingers spread wide to brace him steady; and the touch inside him draws back and away, retreating to close against his skin so his brother’s hold is bracketing him in place. There’s a pull, force to urge him down and nearer; and he goes at once, letting his weight settle in against his brother’s lap as he ducks his head for another kiss. His brother lifts his head at once, shutting his eyes to the weight of their mouths coming together; and those hands pull, urging their hips closer to press and grind against each other. There’s a pull of heat, flushed-hard skin dragging against the curve of a wanting cock, and this time when the one groans the other echoes him, the want of their voices spilling between the open part of their lips like it’s echoing one to the other. They stay like that for a moment, the upward tilt of one brother’s hips meeting the downward force of the other’s as they grind in against each other; and then hands tighten, a hold urges forward, and he slides closer at once to let his brother’s cock drag back over him. Pressure draws against his cock, his balls, bearing in against the sensitive skin between his thighs; and then up, rising towards the slick heat of his entrance like it’s seeking him out, and the hands at his hips pull him back and down in one smooth motion to sink him onto the strain of his brother’s cock.

He doesn’t intend the sound that spills from his throat to come up from the space of his chest and into audibility; but then, he doesn’t make any attempt to catch it back, either. It’s involuntary, instinctive, something strained right to the edge of pain but not quite over, something akin to the heat of the air bearing down against them to slick all his skin with steamy sweat and turn the ease of his breathing into the rough edge of panting. His body is straining, his muscles tensing and easing in fluttering waves of reaction; and underneath him, against the support of his chair, his brother’s head is falling back, his lashes falling shut over his eyes as his lips part on a groan loud enough that the other can feel it run up the whole length of his spine.

“ _God_ ,” he offers, an unthinking prayer to the white-washed sky overhead, or maybe to the blaze of the sun held at bay by the pavilion over their heads. “You feel so _good_.”

“Aniki,” the other offers back, his head dipped down instead of up; and then he leans in, and presses his mouth to his brother’s parted lips, and when he moves it’s to rock himself forward, to grind himself closer against the strain of the pressure inside him. He can feel the moan that spills up the other’s throat, the open heat of it filling his chest and warming his blood until he feels like he must be glowing with the radiance; and then those hands at his hips tighten, fingers pulling to urge him closer and up into movement, and he obeys their suggestion, flexing his thighs to lift himself by an inch so they have space for his brother to thrust up into him, so their bodies can find an elegant rhythm between them.

It’s easy, like this. The air is hot, their bodies hotter; the wind wafts the perfume of the flowers all around them, tangling into the weight of their clothes and settling into their hair like fingers winding through the strands. Everywhere they touch is wet, slick with oil or their joined sweat or both; but there’s a pleasure to that, too, like the heat of a sauna drawing relief from tight-knotted muscles that have been craving release. Inside him there’s that pressure, driving up to fill him past the point of bearing and then drawing away to leave him empty and wanting; and at his hips there’s the smooth drag of his brother’s clothes, the weight of a button pressing against the flushed heat of his cock. He bucks up against the friction, seeking out the sensation without consciously thinking of it; and against his mouth his brother laughs, and lifts his oil-slick hand from the other’s hip to close around his cock instead. The first stroke is electric, it shudders down the whole of his spine and leaves him groaning open-mouthed against his brother’s lips; and then he moves, and his brother moves, and they’re settling in against each other, instinct and experience both bringing them together with a smooth grace that feels as much like artistry as rough physicality.

It’s obvious what they’re doing to anyone who cares to look. There’s too much suggestion in the rocking motion of their hips, in the pant of their breathing; even if a glance doesn’t show the length of a bare thigh or the dark of a flushed cock, there’s something innately sensual to the rhythm they’ve formed, to the slick slide of their bodies coming together and drawing apart only to sink back into each other. It hardly matters. This isn’t the first time they’ve followed the indulgence of the midday meal with indulgence in each other; and no native of Furawau would think to criticize any member of the Lilium family that reigns so supreme. There are shadows heavy around them, and the fall of their clothes to give them some manner of decency; and if anyone should care to stare at the youngest member of the family fucking himself on his brother’s cock, he thinks, they are more than welcome to the show.

“Aniki,” he moans, his voice dropping low and hot as his brother’s hand strokes up over him, as delicate fingers curl in tight to squeeze against the head of his cock as if to force his orgasm from him on the spot. His hips jerk forward, his cock twitches; against his mouth his brother grins, a brief, flashing thing no sooner there than melted away again. He tightens his hands against the other’s neck, lets his grip crush to a fist at the other’s crisp collar. “Aniki, please.”

“Keep going,” his brother says, the words falling wide-open with promise. His fingers tighten at the other’s hip; his movements gain speed and force, his thrusts carrying him deeper with each upward motion he takes. “Like that.”

“Aniki,” he gasps again, feeling the heat suffusing his body knot in his stomach, feeling it tense and shudder through his thighs. “Aniki, I’m going...I’m--”

“Yes,” his brother says, acknowledgement of the inevitable; and then, with a hissing edge to the sound, “ _Yes_ ,” with a tinge of satisfaction coloring the word to a groan instead. They’re moving faster, their skin clinging wet to each other with every stroke they take; he wonders vaguely if the passersby on the street can hear the sound of them fucking, can hear the slick sound of his brother’s cock driving into the wet heat of his body. It’s only a passing thought, only a heartbeat of distraction; but the idea is enough to draw that knot impossibly tight in him, to seize his breathing to a gasp in his chest, and he knows his orgasm to be inevitable as his cock jerks hard under his brother’s hold.

“Aniki,” he says, breathless and panting. “I’m--” and his brother thrusts up hard into him, and groans far in the back of his throat, and he spasms into pleasure in almost perfect sync with the pulsing of the cock inside him. His vision blurs, his cock spills hot against the other’s fingers; and for a few long, endless heartbeats, they’re pressed against each other while they shudder through the aftershocks of their mutual orgasm.

His brother lets his hold on the other’s cock go, after, as the effect of the heat and the exhaustion of pleasure soften the hard promise of arousal into spent satisfaction; but it’s only to reach for his hip instead, to fit slick fingers against sweat-damp skin and slide his touch up against the other’s spine. The other shudders with the friction, his exhausted body trembling helpless response to the touch; but his brother keeps going, tracing a path of sticky wet up his spine like he’s painting a pattern against the other’s body.

“We should take a bath,” he says at last, as his hand shifts across the other’s shoulderblades and presses to brace their bodies steady against each other. “A cool one, I think.”

“Mm,” the other’s hums, and eases his hold on his brother’s collar to let his arm slide in to loop around the other’s neck. When he ducks his head it’s to press his lips to his brother’s forehead, to taste the salt of sweat warm and wet at his lips. “Later.”

His brother’s laugh ruffles the thin of his clothes. “Yes,” he agrees, and shifts down fractionally in his chair, like he’s settling himself into the comfortable heat of the other’s thighs around him, of the other’s body slick around his softening cock. “Later.” The other smiles, slow and languid against his brother’s hair; and then he turns his head to the side, and lets himself lean into the other’s shoulder, and shuts his eyes to resume his idle consideration of sleep while the air winds perfume around them like a curtain.


End file.
